


Threeway

by jar



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jar/pseuds/jar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lester is doing some surveillance for a job. It's a little more interesting than he'd expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threeway

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of AU. Some time after the Dark Avengers imploded, but with basically everything after that hand waved away. Particularly the whole “Bullseye is dead” thing. Lots of hand waving going on, really. Tralala, fuck canon.

It wasn't a tattoo and it's not a scar. It's a warning sign. Anyone who gets close enough to see it and is too stupid to tread lightly deserves to have a little accident involving his fingertips, their neck, and something sharp.

Hell, anyone within range of a good sniper rifle, _double_ the range of a good rifle in his hands, is basically asking for it. Though perhaps that's pushing the bounds of self-centred entitlement to limits only previously trodden by Wolverine's princess of a kid.

He does prefer to give non-powered bystanders (there's not an _innocent_ bystander in the world, not after you've heard what people will promise with a gun in their mouth and a knife against their knuckles) the slight head start of being close enough to see him fully and properly, stop sign of a scar and all. They're a lot less fun to pick off at half a mile, no chance of catching a projectile blind or growing their spine right back when it's blown out their stomach. Civilians just splatter.

His footrest is rapidly cooling under his socked heels and he shifts, digs his toes under the suit's armpit where it's still warm. After so long in Hawkeye's boots, his own boots have been chafing.

He wriggles his toes there for a moment before flipping the limp arm over and letting the suit roll onto his back. The suit stares at the ceiling with his one open eye, the hotel receptionist's pen protruding from the other an inch and a half, like one last sad erection.

He'd opened the door with a jerk, over-eager and smiling, smoothing the bland black lapel of his suit. Bullseye had nodded, tapped two fingers against his temple in a lazy salute, illustrating his name and purpose with the gesture, and told him to get out: fair warning that had been ignored. So one lonely, thirty-something suit is now a charming heated footrest, rapidly cooling.

Lester shuffles so that he's perched on the edge of the chair, leans over the dead suit and rests his elbows on the windowsill.

The apartment across the way is on the same level, though it takes up the entire floor of the building and looks as if it costs per week what it would cost to rent out every room in this whore-infested roach-hole for a year. He lifts the detached sniper rifle scope to his eye and looks through the open balcony doors. There's still no movement, but he can see there are three pairs of shoes beside the front door, one pair of white jogging shoes, and two pairs of black business shoes. One pair is smaller than the other and has bright pink soles. Princess pink.

He'd know Daken was there even if he hadn't seen him stumble ( _fake_ ) drunk in the front door of the apartment, a tall blonde man trailing behind happily, his tie wrapped around Daken's fist like a leash.

The blinds are drawn across all of the rest of the windows, despite the fact it's only mid afternoon, bright and clear with perfect visibility.

"Can you believe that fucking slut?" Lester says to the cooling suit at his heels. "Yeah, well I guess you weren't renting this charming shithole for the ambiance, so maybe you can." He pokes the suit with his toe and his head lolls to one side. “Exactly,” Lester agrees, and grins at the permanent look of surprise on the corpse's face.

When he looks up again, he curtains on the bedroom window are open.

Daken stands at the window, hidden by the wall from the waist down but undoubtedly naked, one curl of his black-fingered tattoo curling down past his left hip. There is little in the room behind him but a large expanse of polished wooden floor and a bed covered in white linen. It looks expensive and uncomfortable, and frankly Lester wonders why anyone with that much money wouldn't at least own something more interesting. He barely spends a handful of weeks a year in any place he owns, but he damn well makes sure he has a comfortable couch, a lay-z-boy, and a big screen TV in the bedroom.

No accounting for taste.

The stark white bed is occupied by a naked, blonde man. The man who'd been led grinning and willing by the a rope around his neck.

If Daken turns around and decides to kill this helpless idiot now, there is nothing Lester could do in time to stop him. Of course, he'd still fill Daken full of holes and shuck out his eyes like oysters for getting in the way, but that would be _afterwards_ , the horses would be gone no matter how satisfying it would be to slam the gate.

The reason he wouldn't be able to stop him is because he has nothing in his hands right now but the rifle scope. Anything larger than a deck of cards is out of reach, the rest of the disassembled rifle laying in the duffel along with a pair of .45s laying half open on the bed (a multitude sexier than the naked man gesturing to Daken and letting his knees fall open, waiting).

Why the fuck hasn't he got a finger resting on a trigger right now, why hadn't he assembled the rifle after quieting the corpse at his feet, instead of just plucking the scope out of the bag?

Fucking Daken.

Fucking Daken, who very visibly and obviously winks at Lester.

Lester grinds his teeth and keeps his eyes on him. If Daken's made him ( _now_ Daken's made him) it would look so much worse to scramble away and screw together the rifle. He'd _know_ Lester was caught flat-footed. Better for him to think Lester only ever meant to watch this, as much as that's about as fun as a choice between cutting off a finger or a toe. The answer's obvious, but it still stings.

 _Fucking_ Daken, who spreads his arms wide, looks back over his shoulder and says something that makes the man on the bed laugh and press a palm flat against the head of his cock, pressing it against his vulnerable belly.

If Daken cuts him open right there he'll burst like a pinyata and Lester will lose a particularly nice pay check, but more importantly at this point in time, Daken will win.

 _Fucking_ Daken, who's got the idiot mark pinned under him and leaning up into his hands, unaware he's a thin stretch of skin away from being gutted prettily, messily, slowly, and oh so fucking inconveniently.

And --

"Why am I staring at your crotch, Wilson?"

Wade's legs and crotch take up the window frame, bright red and obscuring his view of the rest of the world. The suit does little to hide the fact that Deadpool dresses left. Lester supposes there is less use for armour when you have the kind of insane healing factor Wade does, and wonders why he ever needed to know that. At least next time he fights Wade, knocking him in the nuts is definitely an option, and there's not much funnier than Wade Wilson in pain.

The thought placates his temper momentarily, and so he doesn't just bring his boot up and kick Wade out the window.

"Hey, B!" Wade says cheerfully, and shimmies his hips with a kind of hypnotic horror that cools Lester's blood like a bucket of icewater dumped over his head. "I never asked, can I call you B?"

"Only if I can call you 'C'. Get the fuck out of my way."

Wade grabs the top of the window and swings inside feet first, landing with typical mindless grace before slumping down and resting an arm over the back of the chair, his hand falling limply on Lester's shoulder.

Wade, because he is insane, apparently feels that Lester's well defined and defended personal space does not apply to him.

 _One day_ Lester will break his fingers just to keep him on his toes.

"Oooh, surveilin' someone? Can I spy with my little eye?" Wade asks, then pulls a small pair of binoculars from a pouch at his waist. "I sp--WHOA. Something beginning with _graphic gay sex_?"

“That is _not_ why I'm watching.”

"Hey, I'm not judging how you get your kicks, Bulls, and I mean, this is kind of nice, for you, right? A little light stalking and voyeurism. Sometimes I watch Fox -- we all have our flaws. I did think you hated Wolvie Jr., though,” Wade says thoughtfully.

Lester watches Daken slip his fingers into the blonde man's hair and push his hips tight against his ass, watches him lean down and lick at his throat.

He ignores Wade's babbling.

“... I can see the bisexual badboy appeal. Especially from this angle. That is an ass to rival some of the greats. Even Nate's hypermuscular buns of partially literal steel. Well, technoorganicwhatsit."

"Yes," Lester says and waits.

"Yes? Oh, did I just say that--"

"Yep."

"It's harder to keep track when without the little yellow boxes. I'm really not suited to prose."

"Obviously," Lester says, and doesn't bother adding how much saner he feels in Wade's presence.

Wade just nods absently, then tilts his head while he watches through his binoculars in a way that says Lester is missing something deeply interesting and acrobatically pornographic across the way.

He grits his teeth. “So why the fuck are you here, Wade?”

“Huh? Oh. Someone hired me to kill that guy. Not Wolverine's strangely sexy offspring, the twinky blonde under him. Do you think Wolvie Jr has to wax _all the time_ , or did he dodge that genetic bullet?”

Lester has never wanted to think about anything less in his life.

“The blonde is _my_ mark.”

“What a coinky-dink,” Wade says and pats his shoulder. Lester flinches. He'd forgotten Wade's hand was there.

“You know I'm going to have to kill you. Again.”

“I know, B. Not that I'm not happy to see you, but that is a gun in my pocket.”

He will never say it out loud, but the company would almost be comfortable if it weren't for the fact that they were watching Daken fuck the blonde through the mattress.

Lester watches the slick flick of Daken's hair where it slides sweaty on the nape of his neck, and then lower, the jerk and grind of his hips, flex of his thighs and ass. He watches Daken's hand around the blonde's throat, and Lester thinks, abruptly, that if he ever let his hair grow out again he'd be awfully close to that shade of blonde; the shades of the strands laying across the man's breathless red cheeks.

He feels uneasy, after a minute. The silence bugs him. _Silence_ , that's the problem, because Wade plus prolonged silence never means anything good for anyone. He isn't sure if he expects to see Wade jerking off or pointing a gun at his head when he looks over his shoulder, but all he sees is an empty room.

Lester blinks, screws his eyes up and opens then again.

That's almost worse than if he'd turned around to Wade with his tights down and his dick out. Lester listens deliberately for a long moment, staring into space. No voices. No one's voice. Nothing. Except his own thoughts in his own head, telling him he's an idiot for being so distracted, disgusted that he was engrossed in the grossness of Daken fucking the stupid blond man stupider, and rendering the entire world dumb when he'd dragged his fingers down the man's cheek and pressed them to his throat.

He shakes his head.

Wade _had_ been here. He is sure.

He leans out the window and at the ledge below, no Wade, and no one dangling from any lines above either.

Everything else in the room is as it was, corpse, chair, bed, bundle of guns.

Daken is, when he picks the scope up again, still there, and the gentling of his hips before he pulls out, spent and softening, sends a wave of disappointment that registers even though the discomfort of having possibly imagined Wilson's presence. Not his fault Daken apparently has the staying power of a fifteen year old, though.

The windows of the room across the street shatter inwards, and a projectile rips through the skin of Daken's neck. Daken's already moving, lurching to his feet, but the wound is deep enough to give the wide-eyed, still hard blonde under him a bloody facial.

Lester's breath leaves him in a quiet huff.

Daken turns with his teeth bared in a half-smile, half-snarl and Wade's there, flipping himself over the windowsill that's still guarded by a little mountain range of jagged glass.

Lester actually laughs in relief. Jesus, he's getting paranoid.

Of course Wade was here, fucking with his plans. Wade was the Chinese proverb in action, “may you live in interesting times”, only the interesting times followed Wade wherever he went and didn't just happen to him. Interesting times and Wade went together like dogs on a bitch, like flies on shit, like the Princess Pretty Claws on anything that stayed still long enough.

Lester should get over there, but--

But this is even more fun to watch than the first show.

Daken comes up swinging, spins around with his claws popped, slicing through the air at exactly the right height to cut through the skin and muscle right below Wade's bellybutton and spill a bulging tangle of intestines across the polished wood floor -- but Wade is fast, and backflips gracefully so his back is right up against the broke window again.

Lester can't see if Daken's gotten him at all, but even Wade would slow down if he was holding his guts in, and he's still standing straight backed. Daken comes out of the crouch he's spun into with his claws up.

Wade's shoulders are shaking under his suit, and he cocks his head to one side, before he draws his sword and mirrors Daken's crouching ready stance in a way that would be entirely mockery if Lester didn't know intimately how dangerous Wade is with a sword.

He can't hear, didn't bring a rifle mic but he can imagine the dialogue as Wade wags his sword side to side obscenely. "You showed me yours, now it's only fair I show you mine!" or something equally horrible that makes Lester smile as he watches. Daken stands straighter, abandons his snarl and his ready stance to hold his arms out at his sides, one hip cocked out, on display like marble statue, painted black and gold. As if they hadn't all already gotten a better look than anyone really ever needed. He says something to Wade, smiling now. Wade's head cocks to the side once again, and his sword dips low, his other hand coming to his hip.

"Don't fucking fall for it," Lester mutters, and he's not sure exactly which one of them he's talking to. Only it's not the sweaty blonde, who has scrambled backwards off the bed and into the corner of the sparsely decorated room, back to the naked brick that's been left unpainted on one wall. With a face full of blood and an ass full of come and an expression of utter terror on his face, he's a fraction more appealing than before.

He can wait, though.

Daken moves first, and Lester rocks forwards in his chair and can't help the loud _ha_ as he watches Daken get a smirk carved into his face by the tip of Wade's sword. He deals Wade a grazing blow across his ribs by having the balls (and there they are, Lester thinks, and he's starting to see that perhaps there would be an advantage to fighting naked as a pure distraction tactic) not to flinch as his cheek parts from the corner of his lip and just keep forward until he slices Wade's costume, and skin open. Red, white, red again.

Neither wound is bad enough to slow either of them down, and Lester wonders which has the better healing factor: nature or science. Wade stops bleeding quicker, but the cut may been been more shallow.

Daken drops to a crouch again, the feral pose he falls back on when he gets serious, when he's pressed. Despite what he may believe, thinking he's superior, better, stronger, smarter, his masks slip when he's cornered too. He's just an animal like everyone else. He bleeds red, just like everyone else. Lester remembers. He's thought about it enough.

Just a sack of dime a dozen selfish flesh that happens to have a prettier face than most.

Daken ducks Wade's sword as Wade makes an ambitious and stupid attempt at his throat, and kicks out, the sword jerking out of Wade's grip and cutting a chunk out of the plaster in the wall. Wade glances at it, and Daken tackles him into the ground and they roll, Wade kicking Daken off him.

Daken is on his feet first, rolling and bouncing up like he'd meant to be thrown across the room, and comes back at Wade. He freezes looming over Wade, one fist drawn back, and Lester sees his mouth move.

Wade's drawn one of his guns. He gets off one shot, and Daken twists all of his naked skin out of its path, pivoting on one heel, but leans into the shot, grabbing for the gun.

The slug blows through it between his thumb and index finger, taking a chunk out like a miniature shark-bitten surfboard, but he doesn't slow down. His lips draw back from his teeth as he grabs the barrel of the gun with a bloody palm and jerks Wade forward by it. Wade looks up at Daken from precariously close to his naked cock, and Lester can't say he wouldn't be somewhat off his game in Wade's. Position.

They're both still holding the gun. Daken's knee connects with Wade's unbent elbow, and Lester can't hear the crunch but he can imagine it, and he can see the sharp peak where Wade's elbow is now bent in the wrong direction, his hand palm up held upwards and fingers still threaded through the trigger guard of the gun.

Daken drops it first, and kicks it out of Wade's awkwardly waving hand. Wade stands up, arm held out at his side and arm dangling sickly like a scarecrow, straw-stuffed limbs flapping in a light breeze.

Wade's saying something, and Daken smirks and says nothing, leading with his claws again as Wade brings his good arm up, his second sword grasped in it.

Lester imagines an impossible moment right then, where they both sever each other's throats simultaneously, and bleeding out they fall against each other, blood spurting at first, then dribbling and bubbling into each other's mouths, eyes, nostrils, as they slump together like a bridge, Daken's naked arms around Wade's shoulders.

He seen a corpse with a hard-on and he wonders for a second if they'd both come back half-hard despite the volume of blood in their veins being significantly decreased. Who knows where healing factors start to replenish the red stuff first?

He wonders if death could negate the refractory period, then recalls he is relatively sane right now, and sanity involves not giving any fucks about Daken's refractory period.

He wants to stab himself in the neck for thinking it, but Daken's naked and bleeding. It's like he's slipping splinters under Lester's fingernails and taunting him when he notices.

And then the blond idiot tries to make a run for the door and Daken and Wade split apart from a tangle of slashed red limbs like a cell dividing, rip the blades from each other's bodies and pull apart.

They both end up grasping a wrist each, and the blonde slumps between them, terrified.

Right.

Lester needs to be over there before they snap him like a wishbone.

Before one of them slices his paycheck out from right under his nose while he sat here being thankful he hadn't hallucinated Wade. Sanity was utterly useless if he couldn't do his fucking job and kill one rich blond faggot.

* * *

“Two's company, three's a crowd, but now it's a party!” Wade says when Lester finally kicks the door down.

“Drop the idiot,” Lester says.

“I'm not holding onto him,” Daken replies.

Lester rolls his eyes.

“The _blond_ idiot,” he reiterates and when Wade looks like he's about to chime in, Lester pulls both the .45s and aims one at each of them. “Now.”

They let him fall with a thump as his knees his the floorboards and he scrambles back into the corner of the room, his back against the bricks again.

“You want to maybe put something on, or are you enough of a whore you're just good like that?” Lester asks and regrets it immediately when Daken smirks at him and shifts to rest one hand on the red and black stained skin of his hip, drawing Lester's attention downwards.

“Sooooo,” Wade says.

Lester jolts and Daken laughs. Lester shoots him in the thigh and is gratified when his laughter chokes off abruptly to a pained hiss. Blood spatters then runs sluggishly down Daken's thigh, before it slows and stops. He stays standing.

“So, you both get out and I do my job,” Lester says, and looks up from where Daken's fingers are digging into the meat of his thigh around the already closing wound.

There's a long moment where he looks at Daken, Daken looks at him, they both look at Wade, then they all settle on the figure huddled on the floor against the wall, shivering.

And they all move at once.

* * *

“Now who the fuck gets paid?” Lester says and kicks the corpse's bare leg, hard.

"Whoever had the most lethal shot, obviously!" Wade says. "And put a sword through his brain. Even if he was a zombie, he'd be dead. I win."

"Yeah, except I also _shot_ him, and Princess Pornstar punctured his chest four times and no doubt cut a hole in his heart as big as the one in the back of his head."

"Lester, did you just compliment my aim? That's so sweet."

"A retarded child with one hand could hit a target that size from this distance, don't flatter yourself."

It burns him to admit it, but he has no doubt Daken hit dead on his mark.

"Okay, Bulls, Wolvie Jr, your verbal pigtail pulling is adorable, but I also kind of threw up in my mask a little, and I have a date with a bag of Doritos and the perfectly ass shaped groove in my couch. And by date, I kind of mean like a real date, because I have gotten this groove broken in so perfectly it's like three separate hands, one cupping each of my butt cheeks and one for my--"

" _So_ , who gets paid?" Lester says loudly, derailing Wade's train of thought before it can pull in at Brain Bleach Station. He never needs a real reason to kill Wade, so there's no reason he has to hear him finish that sentence.

"That's what I was getting at," Wade says.

“While you two are chatting, I'm going to put some clothes on,” Daken says and waves vaguely at them before opening the double doors of the wardrobe wide. He flicks through the clothing, rubbing fabric between his fingers and pulling things out to consider before putting them back with a frown. How someone who's been naked for all of this gives a fuck what they put on now, Lester has no idea.

“Why don't you just put your own fucking clothes back on?”

Daken looking over his shoulder and just shakes his head like Lester's suggested something that's Wade levels of stupid.

But it doesn't _matter_ what the fuck Daken is doing because that is _not_ why he is here. He does not care.

He focuses on the job.

It's not as if Lester needs the money. Hell, he doesn't need to earn money ever again, even after he'd paid Wade off that one time out of his own bank on the sly. But then the money isn't exactly the point either, it's the principal of the thing. He does his jobs perfectly, that's why he's Bullseye. That's why people hire him.

Deadpool actually pulls up his mask to give him his version of the eyes, like some kind of wide eyed puppy dog that's been shoved snout-first into the underside of a lawnmower.

"Don't bother. I'd have you put down," Lester says. "Fuck you, Old Yeller."

"Old Yeller? What are you, fifty? Try 'Marley and Me'. The dog dies in that too,” Wade says and yanks his mask back down when Daken turns around.

"To be honest, everyone dies in that. Jennifer Aniston is particularly painful," Daken says. He zips of pants that are slightly too long on him.

"Owen Wilson has a certain charm!" Wade says, and then there's a pause in which Lester shakes his head and watches as Wade and Daken lock eyes and try and comprehend the fact that they apparently have something in common.

He's not sure who's more disgusted.

"Try not to look so shocked," Lester says, and picks blood out from under his nails with a shuriken. He's gratified when Daken looks even more disgusted, no doubt at the fact that Lester has read him at all. "You two really have a lot in common. I've killed you both and you're _still_ , living, breathing and annoying the shit out of me. Don't you feel warm and fucking fuzzy? I know I do."

"Well, I'm unsure of Deadpool's feelings on the matter, but it certainly makes me feel _warm_ ,” Daken says, and the smoothness of his words doesn't match the anger in his eyes.

Lester flushes, recognising the familiar feeling he gets when he's this close to Daken for too long. Hot helplessness. It's even worse for being _familiar_. He looks away, then grits his teeth. "So back to the point. Who gets paid?"

"Actually," Daken starts, and Lester rolls his eyes at the dramatic pause. Daken flips through some hangers before pulling out a shirt and a suit. He dissects the suit, letting the jacket and pants fall carelessly into the blood puddle oozing across the floor from their former owner, and pulls the suit's vest from the hanger. He buttons it fully before he continues and Lester grinds his teeth to the point of pain when Daken looks up at him under the spill of his stupid hair, under his eyelashes. "I think a better question is how did this one pathetic little human piss off enough people badly enough to end up with all three of us here just for _him_?"

Lester throws the shuriken he been picking his nails with at the floorboards by Daken's bare toes in frustration, and doesn't even get the satisfaction of a flinch. Daken is _right_. You don't hire Bullseye and back up.

Something bigger than what he was (apparently _not_ ) getting paid for was going on.

“Guys. You know what this means,” Wade says. Lester looks up from Daken's toes when an arm lands heavily across his shoulders, and finds Wade has grabbed Daken with his other arm and slung himself between them.“TEAM UP!”

He takes the opportunity to smack the back of his fist into Wade's unprotected balls.


End file.
